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2013.04.13 - Fire on the Water
The hired security at Gotham's Pier 19 have been given the evening off, a fact that actually showed up on the employee calendar at the front office. The reason given was a cryptic 'Mr. Degtyaryov and Mr. Vasin will be handling security that evening.' Nobody asked anymore questions. When those names come up, tied to the Russian mob at they are, people know better than to stick their noses where they don't belong. And so the pier, with it's cavernous warehouse dominating much of the northern end, is quiet. A few men in jogging suits, broad-shouldered and indignant in their look, mill about around the gates. Though not visibly armed, the way they carry themselves seems to scream that they are not without some method of defending themselves. An old freighter bobs lazily in the water, docked at the end of the pier. The name upon the bow reading: “Potemkin” The underworld has not been quiet about the shipment coming in at Pier 19. Something so important that a Russian mob boss is actually turning up in person with his right hand man to see it done right. The crates being unloaded are packed onto forklifts and driven off towards the warehouse, two middle-aged men in heavy coats standing by and chatting in gravelly Russian as they do. Perched somewhere where she has the advantage of height and a clear field of vision, Selina is merely sitting there at first, her attention held on the sight below her. It's not the men who hold her attention as much as the crates that are, how and where they are moved to being what interests her most. "Ah. Perhaps I should get someone a present tonight," she whispers before sliding down, starting to work her way down from the roof and closer towards the building that the crates are being moved towards. Shadows are clung to and speed carries her between bigger spans of open space easily, keeping the cat burglar concealed for as long as she cares to be, the hiding done more as a game than out of any real need or desire to keep her presence known. Prudence can be shown next time, when she's on a job and this is being done for actual money. This? What she's doing now is just for fun. A car pulls up to the gate, an early 90s Alfa Romeo that has seen better days, and pauses in time for the guards to exchange brief words in Russian with the driver. Satisfied, they let him drive past and he rolls to a stop not far from the two men in coats overseeing the unloading of the crates. The driver of the Alfa Romeo climbs out of the car, a baseball cap pulled down low over his face with shaggy blonde hair and a few days growth of dark stubble beneath it. Even at a distance, the thick scar that runs down his cheek is visible. “Cornelius,” says the shorter of the men in coats in Russian, tossing a crowbar to the driver who catches it mid-stride, “Check.” Cornelius pauses a moment near the first crate, as though hesitant, before jamming the end of the crowbar into the crate and prying the lid off. Inside, straw provides cushioning for a number of teddy bears. He holds one up and unhooks a bowie knife from his belt, lopping the bear's head off in a brief flurry of stuffing. He digs a hand down inside, eventually pulling out a tennis ball-sized baggy of brown powder. Heroin. He holds it up for the two men to see. The two men in coats, the bosses, back up immediately when Selina emerges from the shadows. They don't go for their weapons just yet, perhaps wary that doing so would just bring down the wrath of the lash. The man standing at the crate, Cornelius, looks up from beneath the brim of his baseball cap when she speaks. When the whip lashes through the air, he moves with sudden swiftness that belies the way he has been carrying himself. Being the closest to her, he bears the brunt of her attack. His left arm flies up before him, fist clenched so that the whip swiftly coils about his wrist rather than cracking upon his chest or face. With the right he grabs for her hand that isn't holding the whip, attempting to catch the claws before they come down upon their mark. Beneath his breath he curses, in English and without a trace of the accent he had moment ago. The two men in coats turn, shouting towards the gate for the guards. The lack of accent throws the would-be thief, so much so that she freezes in place even as the men behind her are all screaming for help. "Who are you," she whispers. As far as she knows this man is a Fed or someone else who might be able to put her into jail for a very, very long time, something Selina does not like the thought of. "Look, no clue who you are," she adds after trying to yank her arm away from him, "but we should leave now..." The crates are eyed as an afterthought, her struggling stopping. "Do you have anyway to get rid of the drugs, by chance? I... I don't know. You have... bomb or something?" Not that she expects the stranger to have anything like that. But wishful thinking and whatnot, you know? “Good to see you're still a burr in the saddle, Kyle,” the man growls, the pretence of being Russian now gone, “Shut up a second.” The man's voice is a familiar one, but the way in which he growls his words makes it hard to pinpoint. He does not stop to answer her question, letting go of her wrist so he can reach into his belt. He leans his head back, shouting a warning in Russian to the two bosses. They look stunned, still watching the bizarre display. Then, in one fluid motion, 'Cornelius' draws a pistol from his belt and turns suddenly. One of the guards in jogging suits rounds the corner, sub-machine gun in hand, and lifts it to aim at Selina. He gets no change to pull the trigger as 'Cornelius' fires, the bullet catching him in the gut and sending him tumbling to the ground. Chaos breaks out, the two bosses rush to get into their car as three more guards come running around the corner. They hesitate to fire, almost not believing that one of their own has seemingly turned on them. The dock workers flee, running for cover amidst the piled-high shipping containers that form an impromptu maze across the pier. "Who the hell are y..." Selina starts to hiss angrily, put out by how this man knows who she is only to have her query quieted when he tells her to shut up. That only adds to the fire that is her annoyance at him. She hates him for knowing who she is when she has no f'ing clue who he is. The man leveling his weapon at her only to have his life ended swiftly has her gritting her teeth, more for how she was almost shot than the fact that the guy who just saved her ass killed him first. "Damn." The rest of the events that come down after that are observed quietly, taken in, watched intently as Selina often does when in a situation like this, very little escaping her notice. "Thanks. I owe you one," she evnetually grunts and pulls herself free from his grasp. "My turn." The whip is used to lash one guy about the throat while she swings a punch at another guard's face, her attacks graceful. Effecient. “You owe me more than one,” the man growls, unloading several rounds at the Citroen as the two bosses get into it and get it started, “I had this under control.” The last guard has managed to use his brain, running quickly to one of the crates and taking cover behind it. He holds his gun up over the top, spraying blindly at the pair of them to keep them at a distance. The Citroen is already moving, attempting a quick loop to face the gate. Inside, the passenger is slumped over but still moving slightly. “Forget the goon. The car. Stop it.” Selina pulls out several small spike-laidened items from a belt pouch, each one the size of a medium-sizes ball bearing, these what are tossed at the car's tires after she runs to try and get closer. Those spikes are more than long enough to pierce the tires which, if going fast enough, just might flip over if the tires blow hard enough. She doesn't stick around long enough to see if she's succeeded in stopping the vehicle as she's ducking out of the way, diving behind a mass of metal barrels to keep from being shot. And, needless to say, Selina really is not able to respond to anything the man just said to her, now too far away to converse without shouting. The front right tire of the Citroen blows out noisily, the driver grabs the wheel tight but can't regain control. The car fishtails, sliding sideways and wrapping itself around one of the supports of a freight crane. The occupants don't move, the car simply a tangled wreck at the base of the crane. As Selina goes to work disabling the car, the man the bosses called Cornelius goes after the last goon. He moves through the air with incredible grace, somersaulting and vaulting his way over obstacles even as he's shot at. The goon makes the mistake of looking up to see what the commotion is, earning both of his attacker's feet to his face for his trouble. He tumbles back, unconscious and bloodied. That was a good thing. Means that there will be no more shooting at her. The ruined car is approached and the guys checked on before she drags them out of the car and over to where the faux-Russian is, uncaring as to whether or not they are alive, dead or hurt. They're dropped off where he can see them and Catwoman works on putting that long whip away, it coiled up percisely before returned where it needs to be. "So care to tell me how you know who the hell I am," she asks curiously, her expression stern. She isn't going to start a fight with him but she'll do just about everything else to get him to answer her. “I'm not going to tell you a thing,” the man says flatly, pulling the baseball cap off and tossing it to the ground, “You're lucky I don't have time to knock you out and leave you on the GCPD's doorstep.” With the hat removed, his face is visible. His nose is bulbous, his hair is a shaggy and dirty blonde and a vicious scar runs down his cheek. Then, without warning, he reaches up and begins to peel it away. At first it looks as though he's just scratching, but then he digs his fingers beneath the realistic faux-flesh and starts to peel it away. The nose and the scar are gone, the hair – a wig – is flung to the ground. The disguise removed, he is perhaps a little more recognizable. His hair is, in truth, black and his features are unblemished and clean-shaven. He wears a small, red domino mask over his eyes as a means to concealing his identity. The disguise on the pavement, he balls them up in the hat and tosses them away into the water. The two men on the ground are unconscious, the taller one nursing a bullet wound in his upper-arm but they both look to be relatively stable. That gets Selina's eyes to narrow and her hands curl into fists, her displeasure manifesting not only in the tension that tightens her hands and eyes but also her shoulders. She almost retorts but whatever she might have to say is lost when those fake body parts begin to be removed. She watches, keeping herself out of harm's way at the same time she takes him in, ire and curiousity becoming incredulous instead once she sees his face mostly revealed. "You... I think I know you." Selina shakes her head, not sure what to believe. Is this who she thinks it is or is this someone else. An imposter? "THought you were dead." “You're wrong,” the man answers, though exactly what he means by it is unclear, “Stay out of my way.” That said, he grabs the shorter of the bosses by his ankles and drags him towards the beaten up Alfa Romeo that he arrived in. He easily hefts him up onto his shoulders, cable-tying his wrists together and leaving him in the passenger seat. He returns the other man on the ground, looking him over with a sneer of disgust. He nudges the man's head with his foot, prompting him to slowly come around and look up blearily at the pair, “Who ... what ... ?” "Don't be an asshole," the leather-clad woman snarls, displeased at being treated so poorly by him. "Don't worry. I don't want anything to do with you. And it goes both ways. Stay the hell out of //my// way." Annoyance gets the better of her and she levels a hard kick to the second man's ribs before she leaves, needing to hear the crunch of bones as they break. "Shall I tell him you're back," she asks, pausing in her departure only long enough to do so. "I haven't seen him in awhile but if I do I'll tell him you say hi." “Tell Him a thing and I'll cut out your tongue,” he says quietly, crouching down to bind up the man's hands. He is quick about what he does, standing up to move to the trunk of the Alfa Romeo and pulling out a length of cable. He doesn't even quirk a brow when Selina kicks the man, though the boss lets out a howl of pain from the sudden pain of broken ribs. The man crouches, binding the boss up by his wrists with the cable and heaving the other end over one of the freight crane's support struts, “You're about to have box seats to your own, personal doomsday, Vasin.” Without waiting, he begins hauling the cable in one direction. The boss, identified as Vasin, is slowly raised into the air by his wrists. He shouts and screams and swears as he's lifted, carried up until he's hanging a good twenty feet above the ground. "Fine. I won't say a word." Not that Batman won't know that he's back. Batman knows everything about everyone, or at least it seems that way. "I'm sure we'll see each other around." Gotham's a big part of the city but no borough is so big that people don't tend to run into each other. While the Hood does his thing she leaves, running at first only to then caltapult herself over a high security fence, doing so with ease thanks to her dexterity and grace. That'll be the last he'll see of her for awhile unless chance plays games on them like it did tonight. As Selina swings away, a near-deafening explosion rends the air. The Potemkin goes up in flames, along with the crates on the dock and in the warehouse. In a mere moment, Pier 19 is a blazing ruin as Vasin squirms and shouts from his place hanging high above it all. The Potemkin begins to smoke as it sinks beneath the water, the illegal cargo going down with it. By the time the police arrive later, there is no trace of the man responsible for all this. The Potemkin is ruined, along with most of the facilities on the pier. Vasin is untied and brought down but he can't identify the man when the police question him. The more pressing concern is, however, that one of the bosses is missing. Vyacheslav Degtyaryov, considered to be the key figure in Gotham's Russian mob, has been kidnapped ... Category:Log